What Hurts The Most
by PerfectMisfit
Summary: Snippets of some of Draco Malfoy's birthdays. "Maybe next year you won't pretend he still exists." Oneshot. Narcissa and Draco - mother/son relationship. No pairings, slightly AU.


**I do not own Harry Potter**

**I haven't written for Harry Potter in a while. This hit me all of a sudden. Possible OOC, considering I don't write much for HP and I don't write many Draco stories either.**

**WARNING: AU. Lets say Malfoy died in the end - he was sentenced to death. I hate to kill characters off, but...**

**To my friends Steph, Eternity and Katie; biggest Harry Potter fans I have ever met (:. **

His first birthday had to be the best.

You still remember telling Lucius to put up streamers and to distribute party hats; a muggle tradition, according to Andromeda and much as you reluctant to accept such a suggestion from your sister, you suppose this can't possibly hurt. Your husband agrees grudgingly and after a few drinks once the party has started, he forgives you for making him put up all those crazy, glittering things on the walls. It's actually more of a business party than a first birthday. There are numerous wizards and witches from Lucius' work and there is alcohol, for heaven's sake! And there aren't any other children.

Your son turned one that day and it was the proudest moment of your life. You carefully place your hand over Draco's and show him how to cut the cake, smiling when his eyes widen in glee and he laughs.

His laugh is so beautiful, so innocent, so unaffected by all the darkness that surrounds you.

Then you ruffle the small patch of white-blond hair on his tiny head and you pick him up and kiss his rosy cheeks lovingly. You pray that he'll stay your little baby forever so he'll never become what your husband and sister are. Your son laughs again and again and you smile in delight to yourself as he places his chubby arms around your neck. You want to live this one moment forever - and then Lucius ruins it when he calls you over to introduce you to one of his colleagues.

His third birthday is more like a child's birthday party than anything else - there are decorations hanging everywhere along with confetti and whatnot. Draco is a lot more boisterous than he was two years ago and needs to be entertained more often. You sit down with a group of other Pureblood children and conjure up bubbles that change colour with your wand. The children watch in fascination - your son included, although you've shown him this many, many times. As the celebrations come to an end, you heave a sigh of relief and sink into a chair. You summon the house-elf and have her clean up the mess that's been created in the hall.

You're worried about your son. He's just three years old, but he's already a miniature adult - he's so much like his father that it is heartbreaking. You can see determination and passion etched in his wide, still-childish eyes and you tell yourself that you're not ready to let go. Not yet. Draco is much too young to be involved with anythig that doesn't concern a three-year-old.

But you're proud of Draco - so much, that you simply cannot put it in words.

When he turns five, you can sense that he is going to be just like his father Lucius Malfoy. He has the same eyes, the same sharp features, the shrewd eyes and uncanny intelligence and the same aura of pride. He is unsociable, choosing to stay indoors and read, rather than talk to all those 'other idiots about nonsense', as he so eloquently puts it. Unlike most children of his age, he knows his status - he's always been unusually bright. He doesn't need to be told how to behave with other Purebloods or that Blood Traitors were meant to be looked down upon. He doesn't need to be told what to say or what to do.

His fifth birthday is a quiet, sordid affair. You almost feel like you're in a funeral, what with all the formal suits and ties and the dull speeches. But your son is growing up; that's all this means.

On June fifth 1990, your husband takes Draco to the Ministry of Magic. You frown on his decision - Draco is still too young to be exposed to the horrors of the Ministry, but Lucius disagrees and your son sides with your husband. You sigh - there really is nothing you can do. You let him go - in both the literal and metaphorical sense. He's still a child in your eyes. When he comes home with his father, he tells you about his day when you question him. You can see in his eyes, in his face, in his words that he wants to follow his father's footsteps. You reach over and ruffle his hair and he pushes your hand away, claiming he's too old to have his hair ruffled.

_He'll never be too old for you, though._

His Letter of Acceptance to Hogwarts arrived on his eleventh birthday. Like most Purebloods, he'd shown signs of being magical from a very young age and it was no surprise that he'd been accepted into Hogwarts. You immediately start shopping for his books and his robes and a pet owl. Amidst all the chaos and hubub, it hardly strikes you that your son will be away for the next nine months. Only when you're in King's Cross and you're about to kiss your son goodbye, does it hit you that you want see him until Christmas. Your husband seems to be having no problem with this- in fact, he's more concerned about a rumour about Harry Potter being accepted into Hogwarts. You plaster a fake smile onto your face and hug your son tightly.

He doesn't spare so much as a glance in your direction once he boards the train.

But you know he loves you.

His sixteenth birthday had to be the worst. Hogwarts had started Summer vacation earlier than they usually did because of what the Ministry referred to as the 'Harry Potter' incident. Your son comes home and you're glad to have him there. You're husband's been extremely busy - you know he has to be, but you can't help but wish everything were normal again. You can't help but think of happier times you spent with your family and is it wrong of you to want to have those memories back? You don't want to celebrate Draco's sixteenth birthday - you're in no mood to, and he's not quite in the mood either.

Then your son breaks to you that he wants to join forces with the Dark Lord - he wants to become a Death Eater. Your heart clenches in worry and despair; at first you refuse to believe him. He's not old enough to be exposed to the life of Death Eaters. He's still your darling baby from fifteen years ago. He's not an adult, he's still a child, still very much a child, no matter how much he insists that he isn't. He puts his arms around you and you tell him that you love him as you sob brokenly into his shoulder.

He's so tall now. He towers over you.

You agree - only on the condition that he is protected at all times - and your son smiles his now half-frozen smile at you.

When he turns seventeen, you know you've lost your son. He's just a hollow shell of the person he used to be. His hair is limp, his complexion sallow and pasty, his eyes constantly sunken and bloodshot. He's plagued by nightmares and flashbacks - both in the night and during the day - and you can only wonder what it must have been like to be forced to kill Dumbledore. Your husband regards your son as weak. But you know, your son is anything but weak. You son is just young and inexperienced. You tell him that and he refuses to listen to your reasoning. He promises you, that he - no, that _they _- will win against Potter. One way or another. The Dark Lord will not be defeated.

And your son goes to war.

Then you lost everything.

Your name.

Your pride.

Your wealth.

Your house.

Your family.

Your husband devotes himself to alcohol. Your son was sentenced to death - he was convicted of murder. It never crosses your mind to give up and kill yourself. Your son asked for the death sentence and you think that maybe he was better off dead than slowly rolling off the edge of reality in Azkaban - but that doesn't make it better, does it? You do not have anything to live for anymore; you husband no longer deems you his wife and your son belongs to the world of the dead. You rock back and forth on the rocking chair slowly and watch the raindrops fall against the window.

Sometimes you visit his grave. You see the inscription on his headstone and while most others would cry at seeing the grave of their loved ones, you smile - because you had eighteen glorious years with your son. You loved your son dearly and would do anything - absolutely anything - to have him back, safe in your arms. You did not cry at his funeral, not when people made speeches about what an amazing person he was. But when you occassionally glance at one of the pictures on your mantle - featuring you cradling your son - you break down. It's funny, how one picture can reduce you to such a mess when such devastating events like his funeral could not.

Today, your son turns twenty-two. You stand in the kitchen, sieving the icing sugar. You've never baked a day in your life, but you can't afford to order a cake. You're bankrupt. How pitiful. As you start stirring up the batter, tears slither down your face. You see happy couples and families on the streets and you think that once upon a time you were just like them. You pour the batter onto the cooking tray and place the cooking tray in the oven. You could make this with magic, but you feel like doing it muggle-style.

He's been dead for three years now. But you're still baking a cake for him.

Maybe next year you won't pretend he still exists.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

**Reviews would be much appreciated (:. And i know, I can't really pull of second person POV, but...it's worth a shot, right?**


End file.
